


Infernal Subcontracting

by Ladybug_21



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Ineffable Frenemies?, Lots and Lots of Celestial Bureaucracy, Not Sure If Ligur's Head Lizard Should Be A Character Tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladybug_21/pseuds/Ladybug_21
Summary: "You know," Gabriel warned, "we're not supposed to consort with the other side...""It's not consorting," said Michael shortly.  "It's business.  Good for us, fun for them."(Or, an historical explanation for that phone call to Hell.)





	Infernal Subcontracting

**Author's Note:**

> Because surely I wasn't the only one who was left wondering why Michael had Ligur's number. (In fact, I think my verbatim reaction when Crowley melted Ligur with holy water was, "OH NO, CROWLEY JUST MELTED MICHAEL'S FRIEND.") Shout-out to [Ghostly_Business](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostly_Business) for engaging me in the conversation that inspired this fic. All rights belong to Amazon Prime, the BBC, the brilliant Neil Gaiman, and the late great Sir Terry Pratchett.

Michael should have deleted Samael’s number, but for reasons the Archangel couldn’t quite explain, it never happened.  It wasn’t as if Michael didn’t have every impulse and inclination to do so, after what Samael had done.  But things were messy in the aftermath of the rebellion, and Michael had a reputation to worry about repairing, before anything else.  Not even the divine can dot every i and cross every t, after all.

And, for what it was worth, Michael  _did_ block Samael's number, because Michael would rather be damned in the most literal way possible than talk to that bastard ever again.  What was more, Samael had to be a bigger arsehole than even the Archangel had realized, if the demon thought that Michael had any interest whatsoever in staying in touch.

But the fact remained that Samael's contact information was still in Michael's phone, the day that Gabriel appeared in Michael's office, grinning infuriatingly and explaining that Head Office was planning ten plagues and needed some creative ideas.

"Why not another flood?" Michael recommended drily.  "That seemed to leave an impression last time."

"I mean, effective, yes," Gabriel conceded.  "But, you know, there _was_ the rainbow, and the promise not to do it again, and everything.  Besides, I think they're looking for something a little less, I don't know,  _wet_ , this time."

Only millennia of perfecting the art of self-restraint prevented Michael from responding with a massive eye-roll instead of a neutral nod.

"And, well, _maybe_ we'll do the fire-and-brimstone thing again for the tenth plague, but we need nine more ideas first, before we simply burn the place to the ground.  Nine more _memorable_ ideas—ones that'll have 'em talking for centuries."  Gabriel shot Michael a dazzling smile and jovially clapped the unamused Archangel on the shoulder.  "I came up with the last two smitings, and this really concerns your department, so you can take one for the team this time and come up with a few, right?  Just give it your best shot!"

Michael truly did.  But after receiving at least a dozen chipper messages from Gabriel, asking how things were going, the Archangel was on the verge of confessing to being utterly stumped.

 _We could just_ start _with fire and brimstone_ , Michael thought grumpily.   _Destroy a few cities, turn a few more people into pillars of salt..._

Michael stopped, considered something along this train of thought, and then rang one of the angels sent down to Sodom and Gomorrah who wasn't Sandalphon.  (Michael tried to talk to Sandalphon as little as possible.  Pity that Gabriel liked that simpering, smarmy-faced git so much, really.)

"Yes?"

"Archangel Michael speaking," said Michael briskly.  "Listen, the woman who was turned into a pillar of salt."

"Oh, oh yes," stumbled the angel, who was still fairly junior and clearly a bit flabbergasted as to why _the_ Archangel Michael had reached out.  "Very unfortunate, that whole incident, but for what it's worth, we  _were_  told that Head Office appreciated the dramatic flourish..."

"Where did you get the idea?" Michael interrupted.

"Th-the idea?  Um, some fellow we ran into in the city before we got to Lot's?  Sounded vaguely familiar, although I can't think why—nice, deep voice.  Anyway..."

Michael hung up without even waiting for the angel to finish the sentence, then debated whether doing the indefensible really was at all a good idea.  Having decided yes and not wanting to second-guess that decision, Michael checked that the office door was shut, then picked up the phone and dialed a number that it hadn't called in millennia.

"Yeah?"

Michael stiffened upon hearing that voice again, and anyone else might have slammed the phone down.  But Michael was Michael; control was everything.

"Archangel Michael, calling for the fallen angel Samael," the Archangel replied instead, just barely managing to sound business-like instead of overwrought.

"Well, well, well."  Something inside Michael seized up at the sound of Samael chuckling, a sound that Michael had lost all hope of ever hearing again.  "Archangel, now, is it?  _Not_ that I'm surprised—you always were ambitious.  Job as fun as it sounds, which is to say, not fun at all?"

Michael rose slowly from the desk and walked to the wall of windows that curved around the corner of the office, emotions too complex to parse welling up too quickly.  The bloody _nerve_  of the demon, to hear from Michael for the first time in millennia and start things out with a  _laugh_.

"Still there, Your Archangelness?"

"Fuck you, Samael," Michael said very quietly into the phone, glaring out the window at the endless sea of picturesquely sun-washed clouds.

From someone like Michael, whose decibel level operated inversely to levels of angelic fury, it was quite a proclamation.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry about... what happened," the voice sighed.  "But it was eons ago—literally—and I imagine you wouldn't be calling if you didn't think we could move past all that."

"You’re sorry?"  Michael's quiet anger did not manifest in fizzing and hissing, like a boiling tea kettle, but rather through a deepening freeze into icy stillness.  "Is that all?  You're _sorry?_ "

"Well, kinda sorry," Samael clarified.  "Penitence is more your lot's style, and I  _am_ a demon now, after all.  Besides, my good Archangel, I thought my lack of contrition was one of the reasons you used to _like_ me."

The corner of Michael’s mouth quirked into an involuntary smile, then twitched back downwards sharply.  Samael had always had a slightly antiauthoritarian streak, and Michael had always found it inexplicably delightful (up until the rebellion, of course).  Clearly, that snarky irreverence had only intensified down below, even as Michael had become increasingly rigid and humorless under the stifling and unforgiving scrutiny of Heaven.

For a very brief and completely insane moment, Michael wished that God hadn't handily intervened in Samael’s attempt to make them fall together.

"The Israelites," Michael said abruptly, snapping back into a brisk business mode in a futile attempt to keep from having too many regrets.

"Oh, so you finally noticed?  Right, then, I'll lay off—just, someone told me that defending the Israelites was your department, and since you apparently blocked my number, I figured that becoming their scourge would _force_ you to call me at some point, to parlay some sort of ceasefire, if nothing else.  Took you long enough," the demon added.  "Only a few millennia, but I'll try not to be offended."

Michael had no idea what to say to that, and so said nothing for another moment.

" _Not_ why you called?" Samael hazarded finally.

"Not exactly."

"Well, _now_ I'm intrigued."

"Pillar of salt," Michael explained without further preamble.  "Seemed like your sense of humor.  Thought I'd check in and see if I happened to be correct that you'd be one of your side's go-to people for these sorts of ideas."

"Aha."  The demon's voice betrayed a broad grin.  "Lemme see.  The word around Hell is that the Pharaoh of Egypt has been threatened with a host of plagues unless he lets the Israelites go.  And I would _never_ want to accuse Heaven of inefficiency, but I  _have_ been wondering just a bit about the lag between threats and action.  The typical celestial bureaucracy, is it?  Or maybe not so much red tape as it is trouble coming up with appropriately catastrophic punishments?"

Michael truly was irritated at being read like a book by a backstabbing wanker like Samael, and so clung to what small scraps of pride were still within grasp.  The tiniest of sighs issued from the Archangel, who turned away from the pristine view of the sky and walked composedly back to the desk.

"Supposing I _were_ lacking ideas for, oh, let's say ten extremely memorable plagues," Michael said casually, picking up a legal notepad and a ballpoint pen, "what would some of yours be?"

By the time the demon was finished gleefully spitballing possibilities, Michael’s frown had increased considerably.

"You do realize that our Head Office probably isn't going to clear most of these, if any of them?"

"Why not?" Samael asked innocently.  "It's punishing infidels, after all.  You're just doing your job, as the defender of the Israelites.  Divine judgment, and all.  Your Head Office loves that sort of thing."

"Yes, but…"  Michael skimmed the list for something appropriately gruesome.  "Killing all of the firstborn of Egypt?  That feels a bit... demonic."

"Yeah," Samael replied with a vocal shrug.  "Well, you did ask me, and you can be damn sure no one will forget that one.  Besides, if you're feeling squeamish about any of it, surely no one would object if you subcontracted some of the dirty work out to a third party?  I can assure you that we do boils and rivers of blood very, very well.  Locusts, too."

Michael could practically hear the demon leer through the long pause that ensued.

"I'll check," was the Archangel's eventual terse reply.  "And I suppose I should say thank you."

"My pleasure," replied Samael with cheerful menace.  "It's good to hear from you again, Michael.  Congrats on the Archangelship."

Michael nodded curtly.

"Take care, Samael."

"Oh, by the way, about the name?  I’m rebranding.  It’s Duke of Hell Ligur, now."

Michael scoffed and hung up, but changed the name attached to Ligur's phone number after a moment, regardless.

Gabriel was impressed.

"Nice,  _nice_ —wow, that is, well, truly horrifying."  Gabriel glanced up at Michael, who sat opposite with arms crossed.  "I mean, certainly not lacking for imagination, that's for sure.  But I wonder, Michael, is this really our  _brand_ _?_ "

"Having once drowned almost every person in the Middle East, including all the kids?"  Michael sniffed.  "I'd say so."

"True, true, but... drowning is so  _clean_.  So is burning.  And some of this stuff, it's just... well,  _gross_."

Michael arched an eyebrow disdainfully.

"Well, I  _have_ just received an offer from an interested subcontractor, if you're worried about getting your suit covered in goo and would prefer to outsource."

"Oh?"

"From Duke of Hell Ligur," Michael continued, because there really was no point in beating around the bush (burning or otherwise).  "If Head Office approves."

Gabriel exhaled slowly, eyebrows raised.

"You know, we're not supposed to consort with the other side..."

"It's not consorting," said Michael shortly, strategically declining to mention that Duke of Hell Ligur was the same individual as Michael's former best friend Samael.  "It's business.  Good for us, fun for them.  We get our extremely memorable plagues and a band of freed Israelites, they get to torment some Egyptians, everyone goes home happy.  Plus, the Israelites are  _my_  department.  I'll take it Upstairs, if you don't want to."

Which Michael did.  And, amazingly, Upstairs gave the subcontracting deal the green light.  And, watching the clouds outside the office windows darken and rumble with some extraordinarily memorable thunderstorms of fire and hail, Michael smiled and unblocked Ligur's number.

* * *

Of course, Head Office changed tactics a few millennia afterwards, which meant that wrath was out and mercy was in, and the infernal subcontractors were called upon less and less to dirty their oozing, pustule-covered hands on Heaven's behalf.  It was never stated as an explicit office policy, but Michael knew that the era of calling down for some outsourcing was officially over on the day that Gabriel first referred to the subcontracting arrangement as "back-channels."

(Michael also knew that the appropriate thing to do at that point would be to delete Ligur's number once and for all.  But the Archangel didn't.  Blocking the demon's number again seemed good enough for the situation.)

And fortunately, Michael's reputation around Heaven in the pre-Christian era for organizing and executing acts of intensely punitive divine judgment had reached sky-high levels, even by heavenly standards.  So the Archangel decided that it was probably safe to meet up exactly once with Ligur in person (so to speak), just to apologize for the change in circumstances.

"That's new," Michael commented, nodding at the reptile perched atop Ligur's head.

"So's that," Ligur replied, in reference to Michael's hairdo.

For once, Michael didn't try to hide the eye-roll.

It was odd chatting with Ligur, who had developed frog eyes since falling and smelled like something rotting in a fertilizer heap, but otherwise was very much a less-inhibited version of the old Samael.

"Please, you really expect a _demon_ to be offended by the fact that Heaven is thwarting the little things that bring us joy, yet again?" Ligur snorted as the two meandered through the streets of 4th-century Constantinople.  "Mostly offended that you're concerned about how this whole meeting will be perceived,  _especially_ since you're only here for professional purposes.  I won't lie, management down in Hell is sort of shit, but at least it's not nearly as strict as yours, which is a bloody blessing, ironically.  If we say that people have sticks up their arses, we mean it literally, not that they're trying to impress some impeccably groomed idiot in a well-tailored suit."

Michael raised an eyebrow.

"Speaking as one of the impeccably groomed idiots in a well-tailored suit, I'd say that discipline has its merits."

"Ah, what's happened to you, Michael?" Ligur groaned.  "You act as though you haven't had a day of fun since the Creation.  Come down to Hell, sometime—might help you loosen up a bit."

Michael was upset enough to have to go completely still for a moment.  Ligur sensed danger.

"Look, Michael, we don't need to discuss this right now..."

"Oh, I think we do," said Michael coldly.

"Fuck," muttered the demon.

"Samael—"

" _Ligur_."

"You tried to pull me down with you," Michael reminded the erstwhile angel, articulating each word with terrifying calm.  "You seized my bloody _wings_ and tried to make me fall, too."

"Because you were my best friend," Ligur replied, as if this should have been the obvious explanation.  "And I didn't want the two of us to have to spend the rest of eternity kowtowing to idiots like Gabriel.  How is that micromanaging ray of slightly-too-bright sunshine, by the way?"

"I don't care why you did it," replied Michael icily.  "You never asked _me_ if I wanted to fall with you, and your stupidity has had real repercussions for me.  Sandalphon all but accused me of aiding and abetting your rebellion, after that display.  I've spent eons playing the stickler for toeing the heavenly line—all painfully irreproachable behavior, and no 'fun' allowed whatsoever, because I couldn't risk any of that setting me back again.  And I'm only _just_ feeling like I'm beyond suspicion."

"Well, to Heaven with Sandalphon, then!"  Ligur paused and reevaluated that sentence.  "By which I mean, keep that bugger up there with you, because we certainly don't need another one like  _that_ down with us.  Never had an original thought, Sandalphon did.  Still trying to kiss Gabriel's arse at every possible opportunity, I imagine.  Maybe yours, too, now that you're so bloody holier-than-thou."

Michael, terrifyingly close to punching Ligur in the face, flared up with a brilliant and harsh angelic light.  Ligur flinched backwards, and when the lizard fell off of Ligur's head and lay scrabbling on the road below, Michael compromised by stepping on the lizard with enough force that it began making high-pitched squeaking noises of distress.[1]

"Hey, now," shouted Ligur in alarm, "don't take it out on Gerald, he didn't do anything to you!"

This was fair enough, so Michael stepped back and let Ligur collect the terrified lizard, which scurried back to the safety of Ligur's head and lay there quivering, its baleful gaze fixed on the scowling Archangel.

"I have no interest in going to Hell, Ligur," Michael said, still radiating fury.  "Not then, not now, not ever.  Damn you for making light of everything your selfishness has put me through."

But even as Michael said it, the Archangel realized that the root of all the anger wasn't the humiliating eons of Uriel's suspicious glances, or Sandalphon's sneers, or Gabriel's polite distance whenever they passed in the too-wide hallways of Heaven.  No.  What had caused the most pain through all that time was the sheer _loneliness_ of enduring the whole ordeal without anyone there to remind Michael how to smile.

"Bless me, you mean.  Perish the thought," Ligur added glibly, since Michael’s blinding aura was starting to dim.  "I have to say, I don't miss Heaven.  I know the point of being a fallen angel is that my punishment is not being able to go back, but why would I want to?  Look what it's done to you.  Are you _ever_ happy up there, these days?"

"It's not about happiness, it's about righteousness.  And you seem to forget that, at the end of the world, it is I who will gloriously lead into battle a host that must inevitably overwhelm the forces of evil."

"You've let Gabriel order you about since time immemorial, just so you can 'gloriously' lead a bunch of angels in tartan kilts into battle in a couple hundred years?"  Ligur snorted.  "Isn't pride supposed to be one of _our_ cardinal sins?"

"At least _I_  haven't devolved to the indignity of wearing a lizard for a hat," Michael pointed out, sniffing haughtily at Gerald, who trembled and clung a bit tighter to Ligur's scalp.

"Admit it," Ligur pressed on, "the most fun you've had since the rebellion has been the divine judgments that you subcontracted us to handle.  You _enjoyed_  partaking in acts that straddle the line between angelic justice and demonic havoc, just as much as anyone would."

"I  _enjoyed_ our professional collaborations because they served Heaven's will," Michael insisted, "not out of some perverse desire to engage in acts that were unobjectionable to Hell.  Don't think that you can tempt me into questioning the divine justice in what I have done, Ligur.  As you recall, I unequivocally chose my side a long time ago."

"Yeah, I recall," said Ligur softly.  "And justify it however else you need, Michael, but I like to think that you enjoyed it all because you missed me just a little, too."

Michael fixed Ligur with a cool stare.

"You really weren't lying about doing excellent locusts," the Archangel replied after a moment.  But Ligur got the message loud and clear, regardless.

* * *

Sometimes, even the divine are struck with an admittedly irrational sense of intense guilt.

Michael  _knew_ that there had been no way to predict that Aziraphale would have given Crowley a thermos filled with holy water,  _knew_ that it had been the objectively right thing to do to phone Ligur and warn Hell that the two earthly sentinels had gone rogue.  Still, the Archangel couldn't help but feel complicit in what had happened.

"Duke of Hell Ligur served us well on many occasions," Michael reminded Gabriel.

"Duke of Hell Ligur was nonetheless a demon who deserved to perish, as do all demons," grumbled an uncharacteristically bitter Gabriel, who had _so_ been looking forward to crushing every last demon into a bloody pulp at Armageddon and was feeling decidedly cheated.  Michael silently accepted that the other Archangel had no bandwidth for anything other than resentment for the time being, and quietly retreated with the intention of pitching vengeance for Ligur at a more opportune moment.

Thank Heaven, then, that Hell was willing to provide said opportune moment.  When every other angel looked aghast at the thought of descending down below to extinguish the demon Crowley, Michael accepted the task without a second thought.  Pitcher of holy water in hand and a cheery "Godspeed!" from Gabriel duly tolerated, the Archangel Michael stepped into the designated portal... and simply fell.

(It actually wasn't that terrible at all, Michael reflected, arriving below with a  _ding!_   Sort of fun, really, to plummet inescapably towards that which is forbidden.)

Hell was just as dingy and putrid as advertised, but Michael was here for  _business_ , not to sight-see.  The Archangel suspected that it wasn’t altogether holy to feel so excited about seeing Ligur's murderer put to a very painful and final death.  But was it _wrong_ to want to see Crowley punished?  Wasn't this just a sort of divine judgment in and of itself—the averters of the Apocalypse punished for daring to challenge the Great Plan?

As the holy water splashed into the bathtub, Michael smiled.  Ligur would have  _loved_ this, to see the hosts of Hell relying on a celestial subcontractor to mete out pain, for once.

But then the impossible happened, which was that nothing happened.  Michael was, of course, as alarmed as the rest of them—alarmed enough, in fact, to miracle Crowley a bath towel on command, without questioning whether an Archangel should be taking orders from a condemned demon.  But by this point, nothing was really that surprising anymore: the world hadn't ended on schedule; the Antichrist was just a rather dull human child; the angel Aziraphale had apparently been in cahoots with the demon Crowley since the beginning of the world; and the Archangel Michael was snarling for revenge for the death of a Duke of Hell whose good (or bad) intentions had indeed paved the road to Hell for both of them, in one sense or another.  Up was down; left was right; and good and evil might possibly have been just a little bit of each other.

"Well, it was worth a go?" sighed Beelzebub, stepping back to avoid any inconvenient droplets of holy water as Crowley continued to splash about nonchalantly, getting the bath towel too soaked for use.

"Shut up," snapped Michael, miraculously gathering the holy water back into the pitcher with an efficient flick of one wrist that sent Beelzebub scurrying away nervously.

The Archangel was too consumed by fury to pay much attention to the road—or, rather, corridor—that led the way out of Hell.  So when Michael stepped on something, only the resulting high-pitched squeak made the Archangel look down and pick up the startled and slightly squashed lizard lying there.  Michael frowned at the lizard, and the lizard stared back, and then Michael slipped the lizard into a pocket and trudged back into the portal back to Heaven, drips from the pitcher singeing little holy holes in the floor along the way.

Uriel clearly had many opinions when a large reptile tank appeared in Michael's office, but one glare from Michael handily prevented any of those opinions from being shared.  Sandalphon snarkily asked if Michael's new lizard wouldn't like some holy water to refresh itself, and Michael replied by shutting the office door in Sandalphon's smug face.  When Gabriel dropped by and saw the new addition, the Archangel stared at the lizard with a furrowed brow.

"You really think it's appropriate to allow a creature from Hell to live up here with us?" Gabriel asked finally.

"If Head Office or anyone else has a problem with Gerald, they can take it up with me," replied Michael.

But, of course, Head Office never said a word.  They had known for longer than anyone else, after all, that Heaven and Hell weren't nearly as far apart as everyone always supposed they were.

* * *

[1] A Byzantine artist who happened to be walking by and witnessed this precise moment of angelic rage let his imagination get a bit carried away, and thus arose the standard iconography of the Archangel Michael standing atop a dragon, about to deliver the fatal blow.  Ligur was terribly amused; Michael only pretended not to be.


End file.
